This blog post was originally shared as part of my Explorations class with Columbia Theological Seminary. We were touring and learning about the church in Central Europe.

I share it here with you so I will remember. I pray we will all always remember. And I pray that replaying the memories moves us to make this world a beautiful, more peaceful, more just place.

original publication date: January 9, 2018

Today we visited Terezín, the Jewish ghetto and military prison. Terezín is located north of Prague, and we took about an hour bus ride to get there. This place was never a death camp; there were no gas chambers here. (They did start building a gas chamber here, but it never was finished). However, it was a holding area for Jews before they were sent east to the gas chambers, many to Auschwitz, Bergen Belsen, and Dachau, and Buchenwald.

The city was originally built in the late 1800s. It’s enclosed with a border wall and also houses a prison. The prison was originally built to house political opponents of the monarchy. During WWII, the prison mostly housed political prisoners who disagreed with the Nazi regime. Some Jews who were housed in the ghetto could have gone to the prison if they caused problems, but most of the ones who attempted to escape or disobey orders were transported directly to a death camp.

During the years that civilians lived in Terezín, there were about 7,000 inhabitants. Jews began being transported in during 1941. It took 6 months for civilian residents to move out and Jews to move in. At one point during the war, there were 58,000 Jews living in the same space that once comfortably housed 7,000 people. Over the course of WWII, over 155,000 Jews came through Terezín.

As one can imagine, the living conditions were horrific. 35,000 people died at Terezín because of poor sanitary conditions, disease, and killings. Women who became pregnant were forced to have abortions. Surgeries were performed with razor blades and no anesthetics.

In the prison – known as the Small Fortress – political prisoners were often tortured at the pleasure of the SS officers in charge. Living conditions in the prison were horrific as well. We saw the showers that prisoners used (only once a week, and sometimes the officers cut off the water too early out of spite) as well as machines used for clothing sanitation. When prisoners got out of the showers, they had to put their sanitized clothing on – still wet- and spend time in the yard. During the winter months, it would be freezing. If a prisoner made a guard mad, he was often thrown naked into the courtyard after a shower.

Prisoners were made to run back and forth across the courtyard, just to wear them out. They were killed on a shooting range or on the gallows…

Prisoners could get packages, which sounds pleasant and merciful. However, one day the commandant in charge decided that everything received in packages had to be put into the day’s soup: all the food, sweet and salty and everything in between, but also things like cigarettes and needles as well…

We saw a wall with names of children under the age of 15 who were housed at Terezín. We also saw pictures some of them made. They had a teacher who was an artist, and she encouraged them to draw. She even held an exhibit of their drawings in the basements of one of the buildings. She was eventually transported to Auschwitz and died there. Over 18,000 children under the age of 15 were sent to Auschwitz from Terezín during WWII.

Those are the facts. These are the feelings: today absolutely broke my heart. We were kind of rushed through the museum as we had so much to see, but I wanted to spend as much time as possible in the room with the children’s names. I wanted to run my hand across each one and say each name out loud. Each of those was someone’s baby, someone’s whole world, someone’s heart walking outside her body… Each of those children was lovingly taught to talk and to walk, had lullabies sung to them, and were cherished children of God. To know that so many of them were forced to live in such horrible conditions, and that so many of them were transported to death camps and didn’t survive because they were often too young to work. My heart ached to linger over those names, to whisper them, to shout them, to acknowledge their existence. They deserve to be remembered. I wanted to honor their memory.

Standing in the prison, my heart seemed to miss a beat every time we saw something new. To imagine the atrocities that happened there, to sit in the middle of a cold, dark room and wonder about the cries that must have echoed out from that space, the deep wailing of despair that carried in the night, the stifling sound of silence from being too tired or too depressed or too enraged or too withdrawn… I could sense the terror and the desperation.

Walking down the streets of Terezín, I began to imagine what it might have been like for the Jews living there. How some of them must have walked out of fear, how some of them must have been tired, how some of them lamented the lives and families they had lost… I wondered what it was like for the people who moved into Terezín after the war ended, the families that inhabited the apartments that used to be ghettos, the people who set up family homes in places of former filth and human violation. What did they sense when they moved in? What did they find hidden after all evidence of the Jews was gone? What haunted their dreams?

My heart was broken today for all the hearts that were broken then. For all the hearts that continue to break. For all the ways we hate and hurt each other. For the senseless violence. For atrocities and evils and destruction of human life. I have wept, I am weeping, and I will continue to weep for this world.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” Matthew 5:6

[2020 insert: On this trip, we were asked to write our blogs based on lectionary verses for the day, and this was that day's lectionary verse. I have a variety of feelings bubbling up about using a New Testament verse as a lens through which to view the horrors of the Holocaust. Know that I am very aware that this can feel problematic and am currently wrestling with it. Do I leave it, because Jesus was Jewish? Because I believe his heart breaks even more than my own did touring that day? Do I change it, and pull something from the Hebrew Bible with a similar sentiment? There are many to choose from: Psalm 63:1, Isaiah 55:1, Jeremiah 31:25, to name a few... I am choosing to leave the Matthew verse here, with this edit, as it did influence the way I wrote this blog post. Read on, if you are able, knowing I wish heartfelt love and support for my Jewish family, friends, and neighbors.]

This verse breaks my heart too. For those in Terezín, in other places during WWII, and all over the world who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Counting the numbers of those who died senseless deaths in the name of evil, my heart questions this verse. Were they filled, Lord? It is so easy to become hopeless standing in a place like Terezín…

But then I looked around at my traveling companions, and I thought about all of the people who visit these places and learn about the tragedies of genocide, and I think about how our group wants this world to be better, how I want this world to be better, how so many people want this world to be better and are actively working towards it… and I pray to God that through honoring the victims’ memories, they will be filled. That if we as a world try to do better, they will be filled with righteousness.

We heard so many stories today, so many I haven’t shared with you, but let me leave you with this…

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

Blessed are Eva, and Petr, and Regina, and Leo, and Hana…

Blessed are those who survived…

Blessed are those who perished…

Blessed are those whose names are inscribed on walls…

Blessed are those who seek to do justice in their names.

Amen.

A Letter to the Friends of Vanessa Bryant,

My first thought, when I heard the terrible news, is that Vanessa needs a really good chaplain right now. I don't know if she's had access to that, though, so what I really hope is that you - her friends - are taking good care of her.

I hope you are surrounding your friend with love right now. She needs you, even if she can’t express it. She needs you to be sending her some caring vibes, whether that’s through prayer or loving thoughts. I don’t know exactly what kind of care Vanessa needs – that’s where you come in, you're the ones who know her well – but I can say, she definitely needs care.

I hope someone is organizing meals.

I hope someone is helping with the kids.

I hope someone is making sure the laundry is done, the house is cared for.

I hope someone is calling her.

I hope someone is texting her.

I hope someone is just sitting at her house with her.

I hope someone has offered to stay the night with her.

I hope someone has offered, or just done, all these things without waiting for her to ask. Because sometimes, when you're grieving, you don't even know what you need. You don't know what to ask for. It's just one more thing to do. So I hope someone is paying attention to what she needs.

I hope someone is combing through her photographs. I hope someone finds photographs of her with Kobe, of her with Gigi, of Kobe with Gigi. I hope someone finds photographs of Kobe with Natalia, with Bianka, with Capri, and of each sister with Gigi. I hope someone prints these pictures and puts them in frames so that they all can have these pictures in their rooms. It would bring a little bit of comfort in the midst of so much pain.

I hope that someone is being empathetic with Vanessa. I hope someone says all the right things. And the only right things to say are:

I’m here.

This is so sad.

I’m sorry.

I hope someone doesn’t say things like, “They’re in a better place.” While theologically that’s true (and eschatologically, I agree with that), to Vanessa, the best place they could be is with her. In her arms. Sleeping in their own beds. By her side.

I hope someone can be comfortable with silence.

I hope someone can be comfortable with tears.

And even if it's uncomfortable, I hope someone stays.

I hope someone reaches out and grabs her hand. I hope someone hugs her, and holds onto her until she lets go.

I hope that above all else, someone is simply there.

And I hope the same thing for Chris Chester’s friends. I hope they show up in the devastating loss of his wife Sarah and daughter Payton. I hope the same things for the friends of his sons, Hayden and Riley.

I hope the same thing for the friends of the Altobelli family – for friends of the families of John and Keri, and their daughter Alyssa, all who died in that horrific crash.

I hope the same for coach Christine Mauser’s friends, that they will care for her family after her tragic loss.

I hope the same for the friends of pilot Ara Zobayan. I pray his friends rally around his loved ones after the overwhelming shock of losing him.

And beloved, I hope for the same for the friends of anyone who has lost a loved one. If you have a friend whose partner or child or parents or sibling (or best friend) has died, I hope you will do these same things.

I hope you ask how you can help. Even better, I hope you offer specific ways to help (laundry, food, childcare…)

I hope you look for special photographs and frame them as a small-but-sweet gesture in the middle of their pain.

I hope you say the only three good things to say after unspeakable tragedy:

I’m sorry.

This sucks.

I’m here.

I hope you keep your theology to yourself, at least for a little while. And I hope you think about the implications of the theological statements you share before you share them.

I hope you can be there even in silence and tears, even when it’s uncomfortable.

I hope you remember the power of touch for a person who is grieving.

I hope you’ll be there.

And God forbid that I ever need to be that friend for you, but if that day comes, dear friends, know I love you. And I'll be there.

The year is 2020, and I can’t resist the “vision” pun. I’ll probably use that a lot this year. And I’m not the only one out there loving that theme. As people are talking about “2020 Vision,” my prayer is that this year is a year of clarity – for myself, for us as a church, and for God’s kingdom in the world.
I’m actually preaching on Vision next Sunday, about how Epiphany is a time of seeing; and seeing is knowing. So you’ll hear some of my thoughts on that today, and then you’ll get to hear some more next week.
When I think about vision, I think about the hymn, “Be Thou My Vision.” The text was written by an unknown poet in the 8th century. In 1905, an Irish scholar Mary Elizabeth Byrne translated it into English. Later Eleanor Hull of England gave it rhyme and meter. Shortly after that, it was set to the traditional Irish folk song, a tune called “Slane” – an area where St. Patrick himself evangelized.
In the text, the poet asks God to be their vision, their wisdom, and their best thought. So that makes me think, what does it mean to ask God to be our vision? And how is our vision wrapped up in God’s vision?
Twelve years ago, I heard a song on the radio that has stuck with me ever since. Brandon Heath, in the chorus of his song “Give Me Your Eyes,” sings to God:

“Give me your eyes for just one second,
Give me your eyes so I can see,
Everything that I keep missing.
Give me your love for humanity.
Give me your arms for the broken-hearted
The ones that are far beyond my reach.
Give me your heart for the ones forgotten.
Give me your eyes so I can see.”

The verses talk about a woman whose smile covers all the hurt she hides underneath her cheery exterior. They talk about a man who’s lost his job but is too ashamed to go home and tell his family. They talk about people living in confusion and chaos. The people we see every day, the people we pass by “a million times.”
I think this song has resonated with me for so long because I know that God sees all of us deeply, in ways that we will never understand. God sees the depth of our hearts, sees every thought and desire and feeling… and God still loves us. Scripture tells us that God’s ways are not our ways. And it makes me wonder if God’s vision is not our vision. Truly, God sees what we do not. I don’t know about you, but it is so easy for me to dismiss a person, to not see them fully… it’s easier to hold a person at arm’s length that way. It’s easier for me to hold suffering at arm’s length that way. But I know deep down that this is not how God calls us to see the world. And that is why, from time to time, I pray to see people with God’s eyes. I love the line that says, “Give me your eyes so I can see everything that I keep missing.” That’s what shapes our love for humanity, our graciousness and kindness towards one another. If I can see what I’ve been missing… if I can see the pain, or the dreams, or the shame, or the hurt of the past or the hope for the future that shapes a person… it might be easier to love them. I might be more moved to do something about the pain they’re experiencing.
The more I think about this song though, the more I wonder if we really need God’s eyes to do it. Are the eyes we’ve been equipped with enough to truly see what God wants us to see? Maybe they are, if we slow down enough to do the seeing…

In the Gospel According to John, chapter 1, John tells the disciples all about Jesus, declaring that he is indeed the Son of God! Then two of John’s disciples see Jesus walk by. They decide to follow him, and Jesus asks what they’re seeking. Then the disciples respond by asking Jesus where he is staying. It is then that Jesus beckons them, saying, “Come and see.”
Maybe our eyes are sufficient if we choose to follow Jesus, if we choose to come, stick around a while, and see what Jesus sees…
If I am honest, I will say that I am often too wrapped up in the busyness of my everyday life to make a spiritual practice of slowing down to see what God is putting right in front of me. I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one. The times when I have slowed down, when I have intentionally looked for Jesus so that I might follow, what I have seen has changed my life. I hope you’ll indulge me while I share a little bit about that with you.
On a fairly regular, fairly busy winter Wednesday in early 2012, I was sitting in this very room. I was probably contemplating lesson plans, as I was teaching 5th grade at the time. Maybe I was thinking about what was for dinner the next evening, or maybe even going over what Ashton might need from me – he was 7 at the time. I don’t know what exactly was going through my mind that night, but I guarantee you – even though I was sitting in church – it probably wasn’t God’s vision in the world.
I settled in to listen to the WOW program that evening. Linda Spencer, Mariette Tipton, and Debbie Holcombe from the Sisters of Zambia group began sharing the stories from their last trip to Zambia. They were telling stories about their adventures and their ministry in the orphanages, and something – that I now identify as Holy Spirit – gripped my soul and wouldn’t let go. The testimony from these women pulled me out of the hustle-and-bustle-of-every-day and forced me to slow down and SEE something: I saw the passion these women had for these babies, for these precious children of God – and their passion inspired me.
Fast forward to the following summer of 2013, and I boarded my first international flight to Zambia. Needless to say, it was a fascinating few weeks, and the things I saw were all at once vibrant and violent. The beauty and the hospitality of the Zambian people and landscape were breathtaking. The tragedies inflicted upon their most vulnerable also took my breath away. My favorite moments were spent with the infants, all who had been either single- or double-orphaned. Their room was upstairs, and it was often stifling hot. It had to be; it was the equivalent of an incubator for these fragile babies. The night that I learned about the horrors that some of these babies had been subjected to – things too terrible to even mention at a breakfast on a Saturday morning – I immediately went upstairs to rock babies, tears flowing down my cheeks and dripping on their little heads, as though my grief performed baptism after baptism.
Though I hadn’t expected to have my eyes opened like that, they were. I followed Jesus to Zambia, and it opened my eyes to the love the Savior has for all his children, for the weak and the forgotten, for the troubled and the heartbroken, for our neighbors across the globe, and for people living on the margins. It has shown me the miracle of people who have devoted their lives to loving and advocating for these children. And that has shaped my ministry in ways I cannot even begin to count.

The next year, in the summer of 2014, I traveled again with the Sisters, this time to Costa Rica. We worked with homegrown FPC missionary Sidney Eure Herrera at YWAM – Youth With A Mission. They primarily worked with victims of sex-trafficking in Costa Rica. We did vacation Bible school and Bible studies and arts and crafts during the daytime, but at night, the adults loaded up on vans to take coffee and cookie to sex slaves on the street.
Once again, my eyes were opened there – I vividly remember one night in particular. It was the first night we had gone out to do this particular ministry. As we drove around, we saw many people being “sold” – and the people who were “purchasing” them, many of the married American men. Sidney pointed out to us each of the trafficking victims, and my eyes rested on a boy standing alone on a corner. He was nine years old. Just one year older than my Ashton. I simultaneously couldn’t look at him and couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. This was someone’s child, this was a BABY. This was someone’s precious, someone’s beloved. I absolutely froze. (As a matter of fact, while writing this, I had to take a break…)
If you know me personally, you know that I am a talker and can have a conversation with nearly anyone. I’m outgoing, and as extroverted as they come – yet on these nights, I was essentially useless. I couldn’t get a word out. I didn’t know how to even move my own body. I couldn’t offer a cookie, much less comfort. I was shell-shocked, a zombie, a lump of human flesh barely animated enough to act. And at that moment, my eyes were opened. Not only to the horrors of sex-trafficking, but to the beautiful souls who are called to that ministry. For the desperate need of God’s hope across the world and in our neighborhoods where people fall prey to slavery, and the desperate need for people equipped to minister there. My eyes were opened to see that not everyone is called to every ministry, and I was immensely grateful to those who were called to this particular ministry because I surely was not. To this day, I still give thanks for the brave people who walk those streets handing out coffee and cookies, sharing the love of Christ. How brutal. How beautiful.

Jumping ahead a few years, I spent January of 2019 in Central Europe. While in Hungary, we met mission workers who helped with Gypsy children who lived in Budapest. The Gypsies are a minority in Hungary, and because they are brown-bodied and have a different culture, they are often abused and marginalized in Hungarian society. I won’t bore you with the politics of it, but I was astounded at the blatant racism we witnessed. We met some pastors who worked with elementary age Gypsy children in an after-school program. School is mandatory for Hungarian children – unless they’re Gypsy. He was telling us that working with these children challenged his mindset about what to teach in that program after overhearing a conversation between two six-year-olds one day. They were coloring pictures at a table when the little girl said to the little boy, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a prostitute. But not a cheap one; I’m going to be a classy prostitute like my big sister.” The boy, continuing to color, said, “Maybe I could be your pimp!” Without missing a beat, the girl replied, “Okay. As long as you don’t hit me.” They were six years old.
It was then that my eyes were opened to the lingering effects of systemic racism and how these children could conceive of no future outside of begging for food or selling their bodies. The pastor said he had to rethink the entire afterschool program for these children. He said, “I can’t sit here and tell them that they need to make good grades in order to get a good job one day. In this country, that is not a likelihood for them. So I had to think of a new reason for them to put effort into their schoolwork.” He said that he finally realized the motivation they needed was wonder. The pastor told them that God has a wonderful, wide imagination and that God has created an incredible world for them to live in. So the reason we should study hard and learn all that we can is so that we too can experience the awe and wonder that God had in creating all of it. His eyes were opened as he realized that this was, after all, a much better reason for all of us to learn. It opened my eyes to see the creativity and openness needed for that kind of ministry.

Friends, I tell you these stories not to depress you or fill you with dismay, but to illustrate how little we know of the heartaches of this world if we stay in our comfort zones. As Brandon Heath stated in his song, “Give Me Your Eyes,” it is possible for us to go through our lives as if we are wearing blinders – missing out on God’s love for humankind, missing out on the need to extend love to the broken-hearted, missing out on people who live on the margins and are often ignored and forgotten. We’re missing out on the good and beautiful work being done around the world with our brothers and sisters. We miss out on so much if we don’t slow down enough to really look at the world and the people around us.
And lest you think that these kinds of stories and traumas only occur in other nations, I invite you to accompany me on a shift at the hospital. The horrors of child abuse, rampant racism, and hopelessness exist right in our backyards. Right in our town. In our neighborhoods. I’ve seen it in Gainesville. I’ve seen it at Braselton. I’ve seen it in the classroom, in emergency rooms, even in the youth room…
As Margaret and I were discussing these stories, she reminded me of the story of Saul’s journey on the Road to Damascus. Along the road, he was struck blind, and remained unable to see for three days. Once Ananias laid hands on Saul, his sight was restored and he was called Paul. We read this story and realize that, though Paul had previously been able to physically see, he had been spiritually blind. Though he had looked around, he hadn’t really seen what God was laying right in front of him.
I think about my life prior to all of these stories I’ve shared with you this morning, and I feel as though I was wearing blinders to the world before these experiences. As Saul had a change in vision on the road to Damascus, I too had a change in vision on the road to Zambia, on the road to Costa Rica, on the road to Hungary. I know those stories seem gray and full of gloom, and it is too tempting to tell God, “Stop it! I’ve seen enough! I don’t want to see anymore.” It’s almost too easy to say that we don’t want to keep seeing what’s out there. But I think that God is calling each of us to be brave – to keep looking. If we keep our eyes open, if we continue to look, to see what God is showing us, we will see that these are not only stories of despair, but they are also stories of hope. Hope that if we are brave enough to keep our eyes open, we might see what we’ve been missing – God’s redemptive love for the world in action, right before our every eyes.
I’m thinking again about the questions I posed earlier. What does it mean to ask God to be our vision? How is our vision wrapped up in God’s vision? And is our own vision sufficient to see what God wants to show us?

There’s an ancient Hebrew practice called Chavruta. It’s when we gather in groups (the word is Aramaic for companionship) and ask questions. When you ask a question, you attempt to answer it yourself first. Then you give your companions a chance to answer.
So let us practice Chavruta now. Since I asked the questions, I'll be the first to try to answer them.

What does it mean to ask God to be our vision?
• It’s certainly not something to ask lightly – I commend the 8th century poet who wrote that
• It’s acknowledging that we want to see things God’s way, not the way literally anyone else sees it. It’s looking through a God-lens, not an American lens, not a Western society lens… not a cultural lens…
• And that’s scary! Asking for God’s vision to be our vision might not be socially acceptable, it might go against norms and expectations our culture has set up
• It’s literally placing God at the top, which we know we’re supposed to do, but how often do we (myself definitely included) actually do it?

How is our vision wrapped up in God’s vision?
• If we claim to follow Christ, if we desire to walk with him, to see what he is willing to show us, then our vision has the possibility to align with God’s vision
• But that’s tricky. We have to be open to believing what Jesus shows us. We can’t go in and declare it “fake news.” We’ve got to believe what we see.
• And I think what Jesus is showing us is radical love – often love for people who we are invited to hate, to ridicule, to abandon, to claim that they deserve less than we do…
• There has to be a willingness to see and accept God’s vision in order for our own to be wrapped up with God’s
And is our own vision sufficient to see what God wants to show us?
• This too is tricky…
• If we don’t take the time to stop, if we don’t in some way embark on a journey in order to see… we could remain like Saul, going through life without ever really seeing what God is putting right in front of us
• But if we focus our eyes first on God, if we decide to truly follow Jesus, then we too will be invited to come and see
• If we slow down enough, really open our eyes – and keep them open – to the world around us, then I think our own vision might be just enough to see a little more humanity, a little more of the pain and suffering in the world
• And if we are brave enough to stay in the pain for a moment, then we’ll notice more than just horror and heartbreak… we’ll see the beauty and the brightness of God’s redemptive love at work in all places…
• in Zambia, in Costa Rica, in Hungary… in Gainesville, in Braselton, in Flowery Branch, in Murrayville…
• we’ll see it everywhere we go, if we’re willing and brave enough…
• We’ll never see it the way God does, not on this side of the veil anyway, but I think we can see well enough if we focus first on God

Now, my friends, my companions, it’s time for you to share some of your thoughts to these questions as we continue Chavruta. Take a few minutes to discuss these at your tables. You can try to answer all 3, or you can focus on one or two.

[5-10 minutes for chavruta]

My prayer for us, at this year’s World Mission Conference, is that we might align our vision with God’s. That we might truly invite God to be our vision. And that God might work in and through us so that we might see whatever it is God wants to show us.
So let us close our time together this morning by praying for our missionaries. I suggest we continue our chavruta practice with one another by praying with companions. So let’s pray together in groups of 2 or 3 at each table. In your companion pairs or small groups, choose one mission to pray for. Take turns praying for that particular mission and the missionaries we are supporting. I know it can be scary to pray things out loud, but we can do scary things – I promise!
After you’ve prayed aloud, each of us can take some time to pray silently that these missionaries will have their eyes opened to what God wants them to see as they follow God’s call. Then let us each pray individually that God will open our eyes to see the very real – sometimes raw, sometimes wondrous, always radically redemptive – ways that God is moving in the world. Pray that we might slow down and stay long enough to see God’s love for the whole world. There are reminders about these prayers on another sheet of paper on your tables.
Let us pray.

[allow time for prayer]

Closing Prayer

Holy God, we give thanks to you this morning as we gather together to pray for our missionaries.
We give thanks for each of these missionaries and the good, hard, holy work they are doing.
We give you thanks for people who hear Your call and heed it.
We also give you thanks for stories, O God,
stories that show the complexities of your world
and reminders that you are indeed working for redemption in the middle of it all.
We give you thanks for road to Damascus stories,
for the ways you call to us, for the ways you invite us to follow Jesus,
for the times you’ve plunked us down in the middle of hardship,
for the way you call each of us to be brave – to keep looking…
so that you might open our eyes to your wonderful work.
Be with us now as we leave this place,
meet us along the roads on which we travel.
Be thou our vision, Lord,
as scary as that is to ask, as hard as that it is to request,
align our visions with yours,
keep our eyes opened,
for the good of your kingdom here on earth.
Amen.

Here are my thoughts on the world right now.

There is a story from rabbinic tradition that tells of God watching the Israelites run from the Egyptians during the parting of the Sea of Reeds. After the Israelites make it safely to the other side of the sea and the waters close in on the Egyptians, God begins to weep. An angel, witnessing this, asks God, "Why are you crying?" God responds, "My children are dying." The angel tries to reassure God by saying, "No, the Israelites have made it to the other side! They are safe." God, looking at the drowning Egyptians, says again, "Look, my children are dying."

And I recently reread this statement and have shared it with others: "I refuse to be a Christian who believes that God blesses America more than God so loves the world." - John Pavlovitz

No matter who is hurting, I believe God weeps. For us. For our neighbors. For the world. And we are called to weep with those who weep.

(image by Spirit and Art)

I always make New Year's Resolutions.

I never keep them.

Usually, I have resolutions that revolve around 3 primary themes.... Be a better: 1) wife, 2) mother, 3) teacher/minister/whatever-my-job-is.

So there's no wonder I can't keep them! I constantly aim to be "better" - which, sure, sounds noble. But in reality, all these kinds of resolutions do is reinforce the fact that I don't think I'm a good enough 1) wife, 2) mother, 3) teacher/minister/whatever-my-job-is.

This year, I've given up on resolutions. Instead, I have 3 things I want to focus on. 1) Taking care of my skin. 2) Reading books for pleasure. 3) Try out some new recipes.

These aren't things that will make me a better person. I've decided that I'm already pretty amazing. (If you had ANY idea how hard this is for me to say... As an Enneatype 1 - perfectionist/reformer, my go-to feelings are anger and resentment, and they are most often directed at myself. The whole I'm-my-own-worst-enemy rings stupidly true for me. I am constantly in judgment of myself.) But these three things I'm focusing on make me feel happier. And I've decided my happiness is important in 2020. It's way more important than judging myself harshly and low-key degrading myself when I feel like I'm not measuring up.

So my prayer for you in this new year is that you will find things that make you happy, and that you will do more of them. Because honey, you deserve it.

Have you heard the news?

I have been offered a full-time, year-long residency with the Northeast Georgia Hospital System, and I am pleased to announce that I have accepted that offer! I will begin June 22, 2020.

You probably know that since my graduation in May, I have been working part time at the Northeast Georgia Medical Center as a chaplain intern. And many of my family and friends have heard some of the stories of my time there. I remember being so nervous about working in the hospital and being convinced I would hate it. If you've heard me talk about it, you will know that I've been very pleasantly surprised by how much I've enjoyed it. In fact, you'll likely know that I LOVE it.

I am honored to continue the work I have enjoyed so much as I try to follow where God is calling me. Because of the time requirements, however, I will be resigning from my position as Director of Youth Ministry in June.

This decision is very bittersweet for me. I am excited about further opportunities to grow in chaplaincy at the hospital, but I'm also sad to see my time as Youth Director end. One of the most valuable things I have learned through seminary, CPE, and life experience is that life is messy and that we are capable of feeling many complex emotions at once. I have heard people say that they are happy for me and sad for them. I can assure you that I too am both happy and sad.

This is definitely a leap of faith. I do love the work of chaplaincy in a hospital, but this residency is only for a year. When it ends in June 2021, I have no idea what I'll be doing, where God will be calling me, if I'll even have a job when it's over. It's a little scary, but I am prayerful that God will lead me where I need to be. I hope you'll join me in praying too.

I'll have six more months with our youth group and their families. I plan for this to be a time of great love, filled with holy moments, as we prepare for my transition out of that ministry in June. And it will be a time filled with prayer, as I pray just as fervently as ever for our youth, for their families, and for whoever our new youth director will be.

So let me close with some gratitude. I am grateful to our church family for all of their love and support. I cannot even begin to express the height and depth and width of their love for me. I am grateful to the hospital's pastoral care department for extending me such a wonderful opportunity. I am grateful to my family for their willingness to ride yet another life roller coaster with me. I am grateful to God. Period. The End.

Thank you.

These minutes before Christmas Eve worship services are quickly becoming some of the holiest Christmas moments for me.

In the next few hours, hundreds of people will fill these two rooms to worship on Christmas Eve. Some are coming because they are excited; the Spirit of Christmas fills them with so much joy. Some are coming because they love the tradition of walking through these doors year after year. Some are coming because they yearn for the peace that comes from the music of the season. Some are coming because the story of the Christ Child's birth fills with with awe and reverence.

Some people walk through our doors a little hesitantly. They aren't quite so sure they believe the story, but for some reason, they are still pulled here. Some are coming with overwhelming sadness. This is their first Christmas without "their person," and they are honestly a little afraid to sit in that same pew without them this year. Some are reluctant; they might be coming only because their grandmother or mother expects it. And some will be counting down the seconds until they can get back to other festivities.

And many people are coming with lots of these reasons all mixed together.

Regardless of the reason, they will come. They will fill these rooms, they will stand and sing, they will raise their candles in unison. No matter what brings them through these doors, they are welcome. They are loved. They are family, whether we see them Sunday after Sunday, Christmas after Christmas, or for the first time today.

These pictures of these rooms, of these worship spaces, of the quiet before the Christmas chaos... it is incredibly holy. I can sense the anticipation. Holy Spirit is overflowing in the silence and the dark. It's Christmas. Welcome. Come and be loved.

I love the work I get to do as a chaplain. Many times, families will say to me, "Your job must be really hard." And it is, but yesterday I discovered it's much harder to be the wife than it is to be the chaplain. I'm so grateful I was able to bring my husband home last night. Not everyone's story ends that way.
(Gratefully, he's okay. Just really tired.)

To everyone who is gathering today, may it be wonderful! I pray the joy and laughter is more plentiful than the gravy.

To everyone who is working today, may your work not be so overwhelming that you too miss out on laughter. I pray that you find moments of joy throughout your busyness.

To everyone who cannot gather with loved ones today for whatever reason, may you feel fulfilled through other things. I pray that joy finds you, if even unexpectedly today.

To everyone who is both celebrating and missing a loved one who has died - whether it is your first Thanksgiving without them or another one of many - may you feel peace. I pray that you are able to both grieve and laugh today, knowing that both are okay, normal, and allowed.

To everyone who is dreading today for one reason or another... may you too feel peace. I pray you can make some space to care for yourself, no matter the circumstances.

To everyone... I am grateful to know each of you. Thank you for making this world a better place, just by being in it. ❤️

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

FULL DISCLOSURE: I find it very difficult to graciously receive constructive criticism. If it’s in passing, I can usually be gracious (i.e., fake composure for the moment, then go fall apart later when I’m alone). I have a real problem with perfectionism, and I think that’s the core issue with me being able to receive criticism. If I’m honest? I’m afraid that if one weakness is exposed, then they will all come to light and I’ll be seen as a failure and a fraud by people I respect.

In CPE, you’re either sitting on a couch or in a circle while receiving constructive criticism for about 45 minutes at least once a week. Well, there’s no time for fake composure and falling apart later in that situation. I full out fall apart in front of everyone. I get frustrated and defensive and I cry. I feel worthless and shameful. It’s a MESS.

And I don’t like it. So I’ve been doing some inner work and some research on how to deal with constructive criticism in a way that feels healthier for me. I created this flow sheet today to remind me of what I think I need to do to stay emotionally and spiritually healthy when I’m receiving feedback. Maybe it will be helpful for you.

Happy 8th Establishment Day to our little family of 3! On this day in 2011, we stood before Judge Deal to formalize what we'd known for years - that Joshua would OFFICIALLY become Ashton's daddy. When Josh proposed to me in 2006, he also said he wanted to adopt Ashton. We started having Ashton call him "daddy" from that day on. When Ashton helped my dad walk me down the aisle, one of the sweetest parts of our wedding was Ashton pointing to Joshua and shouting, "Daddy!" (He was also shouting, "cookie!" - but that's an entirely different story.) This day brings me unexplainable joy, a deep and beautiful and holy joy. Thank you, God, for gifts like this. For the wonder of family. For the desire to be together. For the years of memories. For all that is to come in the future. I'm so grateful this morning.

Today’s the last day of Pastoral Care Week! So if you run into a chaplain, tell them thanks for all the work they do!

I’d like to tell y’all what hospital chaplains do, at least here in Gainesville (and Braselton and Barrow):

✅ We listen. We hear all kinds of things: life stories, fears and worries, medical concerns, funny jokes, swear words, frustrations that need to be vented, confessions and desires for reconciliation... We’re here lots of times just to listen.

✅ We accompany families when loved ones have had a terrible accident or are having a risky surgery. We talk to doctors and nurses and sit with families when they get the news after a traumatic event; good news, bad news, or the worst news - we’re often there.

✅ We witness last breaths. We sit with families at the bedside as they tell their families “I love you” one final time. We say a lot of, “I’m so sorry.” We get chairs. We get coffee. Sometimes we catch people when they collapse from grief. We hand out tissues. We dry tears. We sit with people who are dying with no family here so that they do not die alone.

✅ We run. We run to code blues, to rooms when vital signs drop, when trauma patients arrive in the emergency room. We run between patients and families to make sure everyone has what they need. I usually walk 3-4 miles each shift. Once, I walked/ran 7 miles in 7 hours here.

✅ We perform rituals. The first baby I ever baptized was a dead baby girl. And sometimes, we weep. I’m telling you, I wept with that mama and daddy. I’ve anointed dead bodies. I’ve accompanied the dying with song. We offer communion and last rites. And I believe in the power of the rituals of sharing meals with grieving families, and the ritual of touch. Holding a hand, rubbing a back, offering a hug.

✅ And sometimes we pray. Not always. Not always out loud. We pray when it is requested. We often pray for families and patients and hospital staff when we leave the room. But I believe prayer is more than just words. It’s in the touch, the embrace, the tears, the coffee, the smile; there’s prayer in running feet and cold water offered. Simply being present is one of the holiest forms of prayer I’ve experienced.

{and we do so much more}

Oftentimes chaplains are associated with religion. Sometimes I wish we weren’t. People will turn down a chaplain in some of their hardest times in a hospital because they don’t want to be preached to. But we are here for everyone. So let us in. Let us be present with you. Let us hold your hand. Let us bring you a mediocre cup of coffee. Let us laugh and cry with you.

I’ve had multiple families tell me that this job must be so hard. They’re right. It’s brutal. But it’s also incredibly beautiful. I love it.

Happy Pastoral Care Week ❤️

Oh, I'm DEFINITELY not confused.
*The argument over women's ordination ain't new, folks. It's in the news because some "preachers" trash-talked Beth Moore. I've loved seeing people (mostly women, please note) come to her defense. But Beth knows who called her. And I know who called me.

True - it can be painful when people think because you don't have a penis that you aren't qualified to preach. I have family members who don't think I should be ordained, I have preached in places where people in the congregation don't think I should be ordained, and I work with people at the hospital who don't think I should be ordained - all because I’m a woman. I've been thrown out of a hospital room because I'm a female chaplain. I've had a Baptist preacher tell me that, because I'm a woman, I didn't need to pray for him before his surgery - he said, "I know how to pray just fine myself, thank you."

It ain't new. It ain't easy. But women in ministry deal with this often. And I'll carry on, because no human being has called me into this work I'm doing. It's all God's call (trust me - I've fought it in the past and argued with God about it from time to time.)

I've made my final appointment with my denomination's Committee on Preparation for Ministry. On January 14, 2020 (my Mimi's birthday), I'll be preaching a sermon before the committee and will, God-willing, be certified ready to receive a call.

So yeah... I know who called me. It's not up to any human being whether or not I answer it.

Me: What do you want for your birthday?
Joshua: Just a healthy family.
Me: Well, none of us is guaranteed that. Pick something else.
*realizing just how much working at the hospital is affecting my idea of “normal” conversations 🤦🏻‍♀️

"It's always too early... until it's too late." 💔

Y'ALL. I have sat with so many people in the last couple of weeks whose spouses died unexpectedly in the hospital. It is such a horrible shock, and these circumstances are NEVER easy. But please, please, please - let me give you three pieces of advice to make it all a little easier... Right now is NOT too early to have these conversations:

1) Have life insurance for you and your spouse. You don't want one of the worst days of your life to be compounded by financial worries about how you will afford to bury your spouse.
2) Talk about funeral homes - and if you'd rather be buried traditionally or be cremated. I sat with a wife recently who was heartbroken having to make that choice alone, not knowing what her husband would have wanted.
3) Fill out an advanced directive. I'm being trained on that, and I can help you start having those conversations. Please, please, please reach out if you want me to help you start thinking about any of these things.

Love,
Your chaplain friend Dallas ❤️

Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash